


Blind Spot

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bombs, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV: Lestrade, Pre-Romance, bit of angst, post-Mary, post-series 3, series 3 fix-it, three garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working a case involving a bomber in London, all Lestrade knows is that something big happened with Sherlock and John in the autumn leading up to John's recent divorce, but so far no one has yet seen fit to fill him in...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Spot

**Blind Spot**

 

Lestrade sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Donovan is watching, waiting for a reply, so he finally says, his hand still covering his face, “When?” 

“About thirty minutes ago. South bank, but way out beyond city limits, in Northfleet. Technically out of our jurisdiction.” She hasn’t moved, still standing there expectantly. 

“Was anyone killed?” 

“Yes. A security guard who was standing outside the warehouse.” 

Lestrade lowers his hand and looks at her. “Are they sure it was the same type of bomb as in Dublin last week?” 

She nods. “Plastic explosive, at any rate. Should we send someone up to Dublin?” 

Lestrade considers this. “Not yet. Let’s go down to the warehouse, though.”

“It’s out of our jurisdiction.”

“Then why did you bring it up, if you didn’t want us to check it out?” Lestrade asks with irritation, though he knows it’s completely rhetorical. 

Donovan doesn’t acknowledge this, but goes to the doorway and stops. “You’re going to call him, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question. 

He doesn’t have the energy to argue with her. She’s too mouthy for a junior officer by half, that’s the truth of it, but she’s a good sergeant and – even more truthfully – he hates having to fight her on this every single bloody time. He feels his molars grind together. “Two bombs a week apart, same circumstances. Ireland isn’t our responsibility, but London bloody well is. _Bombs_ , Donovan. Not muggings or car-jackings or thefts. This could be big, and it’s in our own bloody city. Of course I’m bringing them in.” 

She frowns, possibly at _them_ , but leaves it, sighing. “Are we going now? If so, I’ll just get my coat.”

“Get your coat,” Lestrade says, then nods at her feet. “And for God’s sake, put something sensible on your feet.”

“They’re just for the office, boss,” Donovan says, demure now, and walks her heels on out of his office. 

That doesn’t explain why she’s been at over a dozen crime scenes in them, of course, but he’d rather not pick the fight. Though he did mention it on her last evaluation. He gets up and pulls on his own coat, then picks up his phone and dials. Speed dial three, after his mother and his second ex-wife. Hell, at this rate, Sherlock will end up number two. 

He picks up on the second ring. “Lestrade.”

Lestrade clears his throat. “Hear about the bombing?” 

“Just now. Do you want us to come?” 

He does it, too, Lestrade thinks, wanting Donovan to hear this. Automatically assumes it’s both of them, and it is, isn’t it. It has been since the day he showed up in Brixton with John Watson on his heels like an orphaned puppy. Sherlock’s never since appeared at a crime scene without him, leastways not as long as he’s been back in London. Lestrade asked once, about those two years away, and Sherlock had more or less deflected it. He wonders if John’s ever got anything more out of him, and if so, what he thinks. God knows he was broken up after that whole ordeal. “Yeah,” he says now. “I’ll text you the address.”

“South bank, isn’t it?” Sherlock sounds satisfied. “We’ll be there.”

He confirms it without checking with John, which is about par for the course, too. It’s funny – knowing John as he does now, Lestrade never would have thought he’d allow this sort of thing, being taken for granted, spoken for. And with everyone else that seems true. He’s got a temper on him and it’s not pretty when he loses it, but somehow Sherlock is the major exception, the one person he’ll accept it from. Not that he’s ever shown any reluctance to yank Sherlock back when he gets out of hand, and unbelievably, Sherlock always takes that without a fight, too. It’s frankly amazing. It has been since the day Lestrade first saw them together. He hadn’t even known that they’d only met the day before when John had pulled him up short over the stillborn daughter thing. Not a one of them had ever seen Sherlock stop in his tracks and reconsider his own behaviour like that before. Incidentally, it was also the first moment that Lestrade really took note of John and started to like him. 

What a strange friendship, honestly. For Sherlock to have found a friend at all was already strange, but that said friend should have taken the form of a wounded army captain with a limp, thirteen centimetres shorter and a dozen times bossier when he wants to be, seemingly a womaniser and (in spite of this) every bit as much of a loner as Sherlock is – was profoundly strange, indeed. He couldn’t have possibly imagined it working had he met John separately, and yet they’d apparently met through Mike Stamford (decent sort, though Lestrade’s never worked out how or why either of them are friends with him) and moved in together the next day, which was the day Lestrade had met John. And yet, together, they simply fit. Best friends from day one. It was frankly astonishing and years later, Lestrade finds himself still astonished by it on occasion. 

He gets into the squad car and Donovan slides in the other side. “No forensics?” she asks, slamming her door shut. 

“No. We’re just having a look. Not our jurisdiction, remember?” Lestrade says this just to annoy her and tries to jam his coffee cup into the holder and back out of his spot at the same time. 

She doesn’t answer, though he can feel her glowering. She waits until he’s got onto the motorway before asking, “So what do you think it’s about, then? Plastic explosives means pretty big money. And why Dublin and now here? Is it a pattern or are they isolated events? Do we have anything to go on to connect them in the first place?” 

“Good questions,” Lestrade says. “I have no idea. I put in a request to Dublin for the file but it’s not come yet.” He changes gears and switches lanes, throwing a glance into the mirror as he does so, stepping on the gas. 

She goes quiet for a minute or two. “Bet you the freak will have his own theories.”

“Donovan.” He’s sharp. “How many times have I got to say it? Don’t call him that.”

She sighs as though hard done by. “Whatever you say,” she mutters, and pointedly doesn’t tack _boss_ onto the end of it. 

He lets a bit of roadway go by before acknowledging her. “He probably will, if it comes to it. That’s why I want him to come. He’s better than a dozen police reports. And you know it,” he adds, though he hears how defensive it sounds after he’s said it, as though he’s still got to justify this to her. It’s better when they can just get on, though. Sherlock is one of the only things they fight about. She doesn’t even tell him how to drive anymore. 

“Watson’s coming, too?” she asks. 

“Of course. Always,” Lestrade says, changing lanes again. He unwedges his cup from the holder and takes a sip of rapidly-cooling coffee. “You know that by now.” 

“What happened there?” Donovan sounds curious. “I haven’t asked him – seems a bit… you know. Personal.”

“With the marriage, you mean?” Lestrade glances at her quickly, not wanting to take his eyes off the A2. “Why, you thinking of making a move?” 

She snorts. “Come off it. He’s hardly my type.” 

“You used to flirt hard enough back at the start,” Lestrade says mildly. “Probably didn’t help matters with Sherlock any.”

“What, you mean between him and me?” Donovan makes another derisive sound. “Of course, the f – he’d never be able to share his little friend, would he?”

“That, or he resented you trying to scare the man off the day they moved in together,” Lestrade says dryly. He does realise how much that makes them sound like a couple, but then, they _were_ , at least sort of. Now, who knows? He falls into thought, thinking of the abrupt and unexplained death of John and Mary’s short marriage. The truth is that he doesn’t know a thing. There’s some giant mystery surrounding that entire summer/autumn that no one has yet seen fit to put him in the loop with, frustrating as that is. All he knows is that around the third weekend of May, John married Mary Morstan, a woman Lestrade had never much liked, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Next he remembers Sherlock having made some ridiculous post on John’s blog, one that made him sound transparently jealous and pitiably lonely at the same time. Next thing he knew, Sherlock got himself shot in the chest right after John got back from the honeymoon. Truth be told, Lestrade hadn’t even known that John was back until he’d got his text telling him that someone had tried to kill both Sherlock and Magnussen, of all people. He couldn’t imagine who, being in a room with the two of them, would have chosen _Sherlock_ as the one to shoot, but no one’s explained that one to him yet, either. And then radio silence had fallen. Any time he’d texted either of them that autumn, John had texted back to say that Sherlock was still recovering and not allowed to work yet. ‘Not allowed’ by him, Lestrade had shrewdly presumed. They’d never once said a word to him, neither of them. Which wasn’t odd for Sherlock, but it was for John – normally they’d get a pint at least once a month or so. 

Then everything had blown up with the secret news of Sherlock having shot Magnussen, which was highly uncharacteristic of him, but Mycroft Holmes had let him know about that one and said that the MI5 and MI6 were jointly ‘dealing’ with Sherlock, whatever that meant. And then Moriarty had returned. Or at least everyone thought he had, until Mycroft also let him know that it had been little more than a hoax planned by local pranksters, though Lestrade had held his tongue about thinking there was far more to the story than that. If Mycroft hadn’t wanted it known, nothing he said would have changed that, so why bother even asking? Whatever it was, Sherlock had quietly returned to Baker Street and John to his flat in whatever the hell suburb it is that he was living in with Mary, and then suddenly, two weeks later, Mary was gone. Lestrade had heard about it from John’s blog, of all places – no one had even told him. The blog entry was short and to the point: 

**_22 January:_ **

**_So much for being married. I’ll be at Baker Street if anyone needs me._ **

The very brevity of it made it sound rather terse, and Lestrade supposes his own hypothetical blog entries would have sounded pretty bloody terse after either or both of his own divorces. He suspects that something large went down back in summer or autumn, possibly related to Sherlock being shot, but what it was, he may never know. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock nor John himself have thought it necessary to fill him in, and he hasn’t found a good way to ask just yet. All he knows is that John being back at Baker Street means that some balance has been restored to the known universe, at least. It’s been a month now but there still hasn’t been a chance to sit the two of them down and have it all out. He resolves to bring it up today, if the opportunity should arise, because he hates having this enormous blind spot concerning whatever’s happened to them both over the past eight months or so. 

“Boss?” Donovan says. “That’s the turn-off, coming up.” 

Oh Lord, so it is. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed the fifty-minute drive going by. Lestrade turns onto the A226 and heads toward the Thames. As he pulls up, he sees a taxi come trundling down from the industrial area near the water and wonders how the hell Sherlock and John beat him here with him driving at the speed he was. As he draws up to the bomb site, he sees that they are indeed there before him and Donovan and feels a simultaneous touch of annoyance and pride. Sherlock is a far cry from the overgrown kid he was when they first met nine years ago, and the changes have all been for the good. And the reason for said changes is standing next to him, looking intently into his face as Sherlock explains something that is, judging by the look on John’s face, the most fascinating thing anyone in the world has ever uttered. Lestrade fights down a smile and gets out of the car. 

They turn toward him and Donovan in tandem, as though they’re wired to the same nervous system or something, and despite being about the most observant man in the world, Lestrade privately thinks it’s rather hilarious that Sherlock seems to remain completely ignorant of this fact that they do this, move together as though they came in a set.

Sherlock starts talking as he’s still coming up, pointing out something on the ground. Lestrade’s brain clues in a bit slower, but he gets there in the end. Sherlock is nattering on about the shape and size of the debris. When he finishes, John adds a point or two in support, talking about the strength of the blast. He’s barely finished when Sherlock overlaps him again, frowning at Lestrade. “Where is your forensics team?” he wants to know. “Given the size of the crime, I would have thought you would bring them, unless you want us to do that for you, too.”

Lestrade holds up his hands. “Hang on,” he protests, albeit mildly. “This isn’t the Met’s jurisdiction. We just came out to have a look.” 

Sherlock looks dubious. “It’s a long drive for a ‘look’, and besides, you know it’s tied to the case in Dublin. Have you sent anyone up there?” 

“Ireland,” John says from behind him, as though in reminder. 

Lestrade ignores this. “I assume they’ve come for the body already. Where was the bomb?”

Sherlock turns, points, and starts talking again, and they all walk over toward it. Lestrade listens and cottons on to the fact that the bomb was indeed another plastic explosive, was detonated by a timing device, and exploded at ten o’clock that morning, taking out a third of the warehouse with it. Sherlock is almost certain that it was sitting on a wooden chair because there are charred wood chips all over the blast radius, nothing large enough to connect to anything else that might have been in the area. 

“The warehouse is owned by a manufacturing company called RedHouse Incorporated,” Donovan informs them, not looking up from her phone. It’s best when she and Sherlock don’t even make eye contact, Lestrade has found, and so far they’re both behaving. 

“The name is irrelevant,” Sherlock says shortly, and Lestrade nearly revises his opinion on the spot. “What do they make? Is there any connection to any criminal activity, or was this just a convenient location? Those are the important questions.” 

Donovan looks up now, her mouth pursing as she glares. “I’m getting to that!”

“Well, get there faster,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. 

“Sherlock,” John remonstrates quietly. 

Lestrade intervenes. “We’re still waiting on the file from Dublin. They’re sending it as a favour, at least until something happens within city limits – which hopefully it won’t, but I’d still like to know what’s going on here. We’ll have a look into RedHouse. Why don’t you two see if you can find anything about the bomb itself – where it was made, who made it, all that.” He looks around. “The Yard should have sent some of the locals out for forensics,” he comments. “I wonder why they’re not here.” 

Sherlock fixes him with a hard stare. “Does that mean that you _are_ investigating, then?” 

“Well – I should really check in with the local division first, but – yeah, I suppose so,” Lestrade says, caving. He turns to Donovan. “Find out who’s in charge here.”

“On it, boss.” 

“We’ll work on the bomb,” Sherlock says briskly, already turning back to John and walking toward him – no, past him. John gives his retreating back a slightly startled, possibly troubled look. Lestrade watches, curious; Sherlock frequently brushes John off at crime scenes. Why would this be any different now? It comes to him a moment later, as John fights some small and intensely private internal battle, then turns and sets off after Sherlock: this hasn’t happened since Sherlock came back from wherever he was, at least not that Lestrade’s had a chance to notice. He seemed to come back with a heightened awareness of John in particular, never abandoning him by accident and generally deferring to him a lot more and being more obviously appreciative of him. There was the whole wedding speech, which Lestrade has his own cryptic thoughts about, but summarised, the gist of it went to the tune of how amazing John is. So this _is_ uncharacteristic, then. Interesting. 

“Boss?” Donovan prompts. 

He snaps back into it. “Right: RedHouse. Who are they?” 

“I’ve found a thing or two on the internet,” she says, starting back toward the car. “Let’s go take a look.” 

*** 

Later, they head to the nearest morgue, where the body of the security guard was taken. Sherlock and John are there, but there’s an odd silence in the room when Lestrade goes in. He’s not sure if it only just fell because he arrived or whether it was already there. John is holding the autopsy report and frowning at it, and instead of leaning across the body to discuss it with John or hanging over his shoulder to read the report for himself, Sherlock is down near the feet and staring into the empty space across from him. Perhaps he’s just waiting for John to finish reading but there’s an odd sort of tension in the air. 

Lestrade clears his throat. “So: cause of death is the explosion, I assume?” 

“Could be,” John says vaguely, still reading. “There’s something funny in the toxicology report, though. Some sort of inhalant in the bloodstream.” 

“It’s probably chemical fumes from the lead coating on the exposed pipes,” Sherlock says woodenly. 

“And it might not be,” John says without looking at him, and Lestrade suspects they’ve already had this conversation. Looks like they’re having a disagreement on this point, then. 

“What did the coroner say?” he asks. 

“Nothing conclusive yet,” John says, still looking at the report instead of at either of them. 

Lestrade looks around, wishing it was Bart’s and Molly but no such luck this time. “Where is he?” 

Sherlock obstinately says nothing, the lines of his mouth clearly unhappy. 

“Went to get a coffee,” John says, not raising his eyes. 

Right: Lestrade’s got it now; clearly they started arguing in front of the poor man, then. He gives a cough and says, “Okay, well, lemme know what you find out. Anything on the bomb?”

“It was a standard black powder bomb, home made from the looks of it,” Sherlock says tonelessly. “Untraceable, unless we can link the purchase of any of the components back to RedHouse. Any progress there?” 

And just like that Lestrade is the one being questioned. He’s used to it, though. “Donovan’s going through their invoices.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Just have her send them to me.”

“Sherlock – ” Lestrade tries, but Sherlock cuts him off irritably. 

“It’ll be much faster. Why is everyone being so difficult today?” He strides from the room without another word. 

John doesn’t look up to watch him go. Lestrade clears his throat, noting the firm set of John’s jaw. “Bit of a tiff, I take it?” 

John doesn’t relax and roll his eyes with an exasperated grin like he usually would, though. “It’s not that,” he says, passing over the report now that Sherlock’s gone. He doesn’t explain. “He’s… it’ll be fine.” 

Lestrade raises his brows. “Any idea where he’s gone, then?” 

John sighs. “No.”

Lestrade doesn’t press it. “Well – I guess I’ll send him those invoices, though Donovan will be on my back for the rest of the day. Or week.”

“Or year,” John suggests dryly. They share a brief look of mutual exasperation with their respective partners’ shared animosity, but then John’s eyes drop and Lestrade thinks that he looks rather tired. Should he ask? Probably not. 

“Come on,” he says instead. “Let’s go find a coffee.”

*** 

They’re back at the Yard later that night, Sherlock and Donovan both still going over the invoices, but at least Donovan is over at her desk. Lestrade is at his own desk, his back to where Sherlock is scrolling through invoices on a borrowed computer, John leaning against a table nearby where he’s reading through the toxicology report again. Lestrade goes to ask Donovan how she’s getting on. When he comes back, it seems that the argument has resumed. He lingers behind the partition, not wanting to eavesdrop, exactly, but it’s _his_ office and all. 

“… don’t understand why you won’t just explain it clearly,” John is saying, his tone low and intense. “I mean, I just don’t get it. Don’t I deserve an explanation? Am I somehow not trustworthy by now?” 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is strained. “I cannot possibly spell it out more clearly than in having done what I did. I thought that actions were supposed to speak louder than words. Isn’t that how the proverb goes? Or is that just trite nonsense that people tell one another?” 

“No, it’s not trite,” John says, still sounding bothered. “But I don’t _get_ it, why you would shoot – ”

Sherlock clears his throat pointedly and John stops talking, glancing up at Lestrade then. Lestrade makes himself put his eyebrows down, offering a tired smile, as though he didn’t hear anything. “Getting anywhere?” he asks, hoping very much that whatever Sherlock shot wasn’t human or living. Suddenly he remembers Magnussen and wonders if all this is about that. Could explain some of the tension, he thinks. “Donovan’s found an anomaly with a shipment coming in not from South Korea, but North. Apparently it says South on the bill of lading in English, but in Korean it says North.”

“I didn’t know Donovan could read Korean,” John says politely, his attention obviously elsewhere. 

“Yeah, she did an exchange one year, long time ago,” Lestrade explains. “What about you?” he asks, meaning Sherlock. 

Sherlock makes a sound of negation. “Other than having a suspicious number of shipments coming in from countries on the terror watch list, no, but the invoices claim they’re all grocery items such as tahini, falafel mix, canned chickpeas and so forth. In English _and_ Arabic,” he adds stiffly, as though not wanting to be outdone. 

Lestrade is impressed and doesn’t bother trying to hide it, though he doesn’t comment on it. Apparently John also didn’t know that Sherlock could read Arabic, though; his head turns to look at him and despite the strain around his eyes, a look of unmistakeable affection comes through, with a side helping of wonder as a bonus. Lestrade purses his lips and wonders, not for the first time, how heterosexual John Watson really is. Because _really_. He also wonders again what the issue is that’s got them both in such a knot. “Look,” he says diplomatically. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we all take a break and start again tomorrow, first thing.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tighten visibly and Lestrade sees John notice it, a small crease appearing between his brows. He supposes that the argument is therefore going to continue at home. “Fine,” Sherlock says shortly. “What time do you want us back?” 

Still ‘us’, still the package deal. Evidently the argument hasn’t changed that, at any rate. “Let’s say eight,” Lestrade says. “Get some sleep.” 

He pulls his coat on and waits for them: his superiors have made it quite clear that, while Sherlock (and therefore John) are allowed in the building and to assist on the occasional case, he is _not_ to leave them in the building unsupervised. They’re both still wearing their coats and after John quietly says his name, Sherlock makes an annoyed sound and switches off the computer without speaking, then gets up and follows them to the lifts. The ride down is very quiet. Lestrade does his best not to notice. Whatever’s going on seems to be serious and he doesn’t want to muck around in it, but he hopes for all their sakes that they work it out soon. 

*** 

There’s another bomb scare well before eight – closer to six, in fact – but this time a night cleaner saw it and called it in. Lestrade is still blinking and wishing he’d gone to bed earlier when he arrives outside the building, though Donovan is already off interviewing the man. Sherlock and John arrive a few minutes later, still tense. Or rather, Sherlock is tense and John is yawning and blinking but nonetheless asking intelligent questions which Sherlock more or less ignores for the time being. 

“Connection to RedHouse?” Sherlock asks. 

Lestrade shakes his head. “No idea yet.” 

Sherlock looks irritated. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for someone to _get_ an idea at some point.”

Normally John would admonish him here but not this time, it seems. Lestrade glances at him, then looks back at Sherlock. “We just got here before you did, all right? The bomb squad is still in there.”

“Fine, I’ll just do all the heavy lifting myself, as usual,” Sherlock gripes, digging out his phone, thumbs already jabbing viciously at the screen. 

John ignores this and wanders over to Donovan and the cleaner. Lestrade glances at Sherlock, then follows John. Despite being tired, John interrupts gently and Donovan doesn’t glare at him. He questions the man nicely and they find out that it’s a building that rents out office space and that the cleaner has little idea which companies rent which rooms. The complex is owned by a group called BusinessPro and all the man knows is that they pay him on time. John thanks him and turns away and Donovan resumes her grilling. Lestrade watches John out of the corner of his eye as the latter goes back to Sherlock and says quietly, “Google BusinessPro. They own this place and rent it out to businesses for office space.”

Sherlock’s fingers still, then his eyes flick up over the phone and meet John’s for a long moment. “Thank you, John,” he says, his voice low and softer than usual, lacking the hard edges. 

John’s head ducks and he swallows, hands on his hips. “You know I’m just trying to help, right?” It’s a rhetorical question and he’s squinting into Sherlock’s face a bit hesitantly. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I just want to understand – ”

It’s the wrong thing to have said, apparently; Sherlock’s face clouds over again. “Well, you _would_ understand if you thought about it for five seconds. It should be completely _obvious_.”

“But it isn’t!” John sounds upset. “I keep telling you – I don’t get why you would do that – to yourself or to me! Did you think I _wanted_ that, for you to – and then to get yourself sent off to God knows where?”

Lestrade turns his back to them, pretending to consult his phone, but in truth he’s rather curious. What on earth is John going on about? 

Sherlock’s voice is so low he almost can’t hear it. “I did what I had to do,” he says, barely audible. “I failed to see any other way to prevent you from being caught up in Mary’s affairs. I apologise if that failed to meet your expectations or was insufficient. I really fail to see what more I could have done, given the circumstances. Excuse me. I need to speak to the bomb squad.”

He strides past them both and Lestrade risks a look at John. He’s standing where Sherlock left him, fists balled at his sides, but his head is hanging, face angled toward the ground and Lestrade senses that Sherlock’s words cut him deeply somehow – and yet he also thinks that Sherlock himself is behaving as though wounded and misunderstood; he doesn’t normally close up and throw up his walls around John like this. The rest of them, oh certainly, but John always seemed to be automatically in the inner circle right from day one. Lestrade goes over, wondering if he should say something. He’s got a bomb waiting to be diffused and this is the second one in his city in the space of three days and there are bigger things to worry about, but still. 

John looks up as he comes over, his eyes drooping at the corners like a sad dog’s. “I shouldn’t have let him go in there,” he says unhappily. “What if the bomb hasn’t been diffused yet?” 

A text alert sounds on Lestrade’s phone and he looks down at it. “It has been, just now,” he says. “Don’t worry.” He hesitates, but he’s curious. “Can I ask…?” He trails off, noting John’s mouth tightening. 

“Better not,” he says brusquely, already turning away, and Lestrade thinks, _Right, message received._

“Never mind, then,” he says, mustering some false cheer. “Let’s go in and see what this is all about, then.”

Inside, the bomb squad is just carrying out the device and Sherlock already has everything all sorted. “Fingerprints,” he informs Lestrade, eyes registering John’s presence but not acknowledging it in any other way. “Same bomber as in the factory, and RedHouse has office space leased on the eighth floor. I imagine it’s locked but our cleaner should be able to remedy that. It’s leased to someone called David Fisher. Same type of bomb as in Northfleet and Dublin. Shall we?” He nods upward, meaning the office, and Lestrade agrees, pulling out his phone. 

“Donovan,” he says into it. “Send that cleaner inside. Find out everything you can on a David Fisher, works for RedHouse.”

“Got it, boss,” she says, and hangs up. 

The cleaner comes in, looking relieved to see the lack of bomb. Sherlock puts the man through the third degree in the lift and finally John intervenes when the cleaner starts stammering, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm and saying his name in light warning. 

Sherlock jerks as though burnt and pulls his arm away. His mouth clamps shut, the flow of questions stopping as though someone switched him off. The silence in the lift becomes immediately awkward. This is becoming a problem, Lestrade thinks, waiting for the slowest lift in existence to finally grind to a halt at the eighth and final storey. 

They break into the office, Lestrade setting Donovan to putting in the order for a warrant right away, making this premature rather than fully illegal. They have a look around, or rather he and John and the cleaner watch while Sherlock does. John’s arms are crossed, his face both resentful and hurt, and Sherlock is ignoring the lot of them per his usual, though he says less than he sometimes does. Normally the pattern goes that he looks and observes, then starts spitting out rapid fire deductions of things that neither he or John or any of the rest of the Met police would have spotted, then painstakingly walks them through how and why he came to his conclusions, fed mostly by John’s questions. And then, at the end of it, John’s praise. This time none of it happens. All Sherlock says, eventually, is that he wants the laptop. 

“You can’t take the laptop,” Lestrade protests. “Not before the warrant’s been served, at least.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. His lips compress and he looks as though he is going through some harrowing inner trial that Lestrade knows nothing whatsoever about and isn’t about to be let in on, but the result of which is that his narrow-minded following-legal-procedures thing is costly him more energy than he can spare at the moment. Finally he straightens up and says, “Fine. Then let me know when I can see it. Until then there’s no point to any of this.” He turns and walks back out into the corridor, not waiting for John. 

“Where are you going?” John calls after him, sounding startled. 

“Home.” The word comes back to them from down the corridor, already several metres away. 

John gives Lestrade a look that’s half-apologetic and half-exasperated and Lestrade shrugs. “I’ll let you know when he can have it,” Lestrade tells him, nodding in Sherlock’s direction in an unspoken _Go after him, then_. 

John nods, his eyes dropping. “Okay. Great. Thanks.” He goes then, hurrying down the hall just in time for the lift to arrive. 

Lestrade takes another look around the office. If Sherlock didn’t see anything here worth pursuing, should he even bother? There’s always the possibility that the argument has thrown him off his game. Still, it’s risky without already having the warrant in hand. He turns to the cleaner. “Right, guess we’ll come back to this lot later,” he says, forcing a smile. “Thanks for your help. You should get on home, then.”

“Me shift ’asn’t finished,” the cleaner protests, putting his hands in his pockets. 

Lestrade shakes his head. “We’ll let your boss know. Tell them we sent you home because of the bomb. Go on, then.”

The man looks relieved. “Right, then. Fanks very much.” They go out into the corridor and the office is carefully locked again. 

Outside, Lestrade confers with Donovan to find out what she’s got, which isn’t much. David Fisher is listed as an administrative assistant for RedHouse but there is no other information. “Photo?” Lestrade asks. 

“Not yet. I’ll try social media, but it’s a pretty common name,” Donovan says. She looks up. “Back to the office, then?” 

“Yeah, but I need a serious coffee on the way,” Lestrade says, but Donovan isn’t listening. She seems to be looking at something or someone over his shoulder. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, not sounding particularly helpful. 

Lestrade turns in surprise to find none other than Mycroft Holmes standing behind him. Multiple thoughts cross his mind at the same time, principally having to do with whether or not this bomber is a giant, international terrorist and if so, if this entire investigation is well above his pay grade and is about to be taken out of his hands, as well as a slightly uneasy wonder if he’s in trouble in some way. “Mycroft,” he says guardedly. “What are you – ”

Mycroft ignores Donovan entirely. “I believe I could be of service concerning that coffee,” he says smoothly. He is as cold and supercilious as ever, Lestrade thinks, eyeing him with slight distrust. Mycroft indicates with his umbrella a black town car waiting discreetly at the kerb. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, politely enough, but it’s obviously not a request. 

Lestrade sighs internally. “Right,” he says aloud. “Go on ahead,” he tells Donovan. “I’ll be there in a bit.” 

She looks at him as though he’s gone half mad. To his knowledge she’s never encountered Mycroft Holmes before. Knowing who he is likely wouldn’t help anything, though. “All right,” she says, all of her dubiousness showing plainly. 

Mycroft ushers him into the black car, its mirrored windows closed and betraying nothing. “We can stop and find you a coffee somewhere on the way, I’m sure,” he says, his voice like oil. He pulls the door closed, seated across from Lestrade. There is no one else in the car save the driver.

Lestrade looks around it, taking in what he can. He’s never been in a car _with_ Mycroft before, though once or twice he’s been quasi-abducted by one and taken to Mycroft in one of his various offices. He has at least three that Lestrade has seen so far. He has a feeling he is about to get some answers to some questions he’s had for a long time now. 

Mycroft is watching him, probably surmising everything he’s currently thinking in that freakishly intelligent brain of his. After a moment he says to the driver, his eyes never leaving Lestrade’s face, “Drive to a café.” The car pulls out into traffic. Mycroft pushes a button that closes off the space between them and the driver. “Now,” he says, fixing Lestrade with his gaze. “You have questions, I imagine. I rather think it’s time you had some answers. You may need them.” 

Lestrade purses his lips. “Is this about the bomber?” 

“It could be.” 

“You don’t know?” Lestrade feels his eyes narrow. “Or you’re not going to tell me yet?” 

This gets him a smile, if an aloof one. “I don’t know yet.” His gaze bores into Lestrade’s face, as though daring him to pose another question. 

“All right, then,” he says, cutting abruptly to the chase. “How’s this: who shot Sherlock?” 

The smile is definite now; evidently this was the right question to ask. Just then the car pulls over again and there’s faint, respectful ping. A voice – the driver’s, probably – comes on and says, “Costa Coffee. What can I get for the Detective Inspector, sir?” 

Mycroft looks at Lestrade and raises his eyebrows. “Er, just a filtered coffee,” Lestrade says, thinking that they arrived awfully quick, but then remembering that there is indeed a Costa quite close to the BusinessPro building. “Something strong and black, no sugar.”

“Very good.” The intercom switches off and the front right door opens and closes. 

Mycroft listens for it, then says, “Mary Morstan.”

Lestrade doesn’t follow. “What?” 

“You asked who shot my brother,” Mycroft reminds him. “The answer is Mary Morstan. On the twentieth of June in the penthouse of the late Charles Augustus Magnussen, who was her initial target. Sherlock, searching Magnussen’s office for letters with which the latter had been threatening two high level government officials, accidentally stumbled onto the scene, and to ensure his silence, Mary Morstan shot him in the heart.” His voice is very sober. 

Lestrade feels as though he’s just been punched in the chest. He prides himself on being fairly unshockable, but he is shocked by this. Profoundly. “Sherlock was the best man at their wedding,” he says stupidly, unable to take it in. “Why would she _shoot_ him? And what the bloody hell was she doing threatening Magnussen in the first place?” 

Mycroft gives him the faintest glimmer of a smile and withdraws a thick file from his briefcase on the seat next to him. He passes it to Lestrade. “Go on,” he invites. “This is my file on the woman we know as Mary Morstan.” 

Lestrade takes it, noticing that Mycroft refuses to call her by her married name. “That’s not her real name?” 

“No. She stole it from the gravestone of a stillborn infant,” Mycroft says, and there’s scorn underscoring his voice now. 

Lestrade snorts. “Classy.” He’d never liked her particularly but never could have said why. Does this mean that his instincts do actually function properly sometimes after all? He’s wondered on occasion. He opens the file and begins to turn the pages inside. “Christ,” he says in disbelief. There is photo after photo of Mary all in different guises – long hair, short hair, light hair, dark hair, outfits varying from completely normal to elegantly dressed to an unrecognisable person in full niqab that he assumes must be her as well. And there are articles, usually asking questions that don’t have answers. _Who killed President Akhmani?_ reads one headline. Another says _Bomb at Children’s Hospital Leaves City Grieving & Angry: Citizens Demand Justice_. Lestrade picks up another titled _Israel Peace Talks Interrupted by Gunfire: Four Killed. Start of War?_ “This is all Mary?” he asks in disbelief. Somehow he finds it incredibly difficult to reconcile with his mental notion of her. The thought occurs that this just goes to show what a good cover she apparently pulls. 

Mycroft’s smile is tight now. “Indeed,” he says. “Unfortunately, my brother, being who he is, was able to surmise quite a lot just by encountering Mary standing over Magnussen with a gun and a silencer, having scaled the office building from outside. I imagine that most people could get somewhere with that, and Sherlock is hardly most people. I understand her reasoning in the shot, and yet it was also a terrible decision. She failed to make a kill shot – ”

“Accidentally or on purpose?” Lestrade demands, interrupting. Just then there is a knock on his window and he jumps, cursing himself an instant later. 

“Coffee,” Mycroft reminds him, pressing a button to lower the window. 

Lestrade takes a large cup from the driver. “Cheers,” he says, and the driver retreats and gets back into the front seat. Evidently no instructions are required; he begins to drive aimlessly around the city, allowing them to speak. “Go on,” he tells Mycroft. 

“According to Sherlock, Mary gave him a demonstration of her abilities using a coin,” Mycroft says, not quite rolling his eyes. “She did hit the coin but the shot was off-centre, leading him to believe that she _had_ intended for him to die. Luckily for him, she failed. Though only just.” Mycroft falls silent for a moment, then adds, “It was touch and go, you know. Sherlock had flatlined. The fact that he was somehow able to pull himself through the ordeal of taking a bullet in the liver and heart is rather astounding, but he did it. The day that you attempted to visit him in the hospital was the day he decided that he had waited long enough and needed for John to know what had transpired. John kept asking and Sherlock could hardly tell him before he had found a way to neutralise the threat of Mary and the possibility of her retaliation. The way it was going, Sherlock was afraid that John would stumble onto the truth of his own accord and thereby place himself at risk.” Mycroft’s eyes find Lestrade’s and there’s a twist to his lips as he says, “You know my brother. You know that he could hardly have allowed that to happen.” 

Lestrade has to agree. “Not really. But then why’d he wait a week?” 

“He had just been shot in the heart,” Mycroft reminds him dryly. “He was literally unable to effect his escape any sooner. As it was, he was obliged to take his morphine drip with him. He set up a confrontation to show John the truth, with the help of his street friends. The morphine got left behind and during the ensuing confrontation his heart stopped. He very nearly didn’t survive the defibrillation.” 

Lestrade’s mouth falls open. “But – what happened with Mary? Why wasn’t she arrested?” 

Mycroft nods at his untouched coffee. “Drink that,” he says, and he sounds a bit sad now. “At that time, we all believed that Mary Morstan was carrying John’s child. Sherlock in particular believed that to be true, though later we all saw that this was nothing more than Mary’s machinations as well. Sherlock felt that John wouldn’t abandon a pregnant wife. Without a child, yes. But with a child in play – he didn’t think so. Nor do I. That was a clever move on Mary’s part. Sherlock persuaded John not to leave Mary that night, for both John’s safety and his own. Mary had already returned to the hospital after the first surgery and threatened him to keep his silence. And if John had left her that night, Sherlock had no doubt that Mary would have retaliated. Sherlock was in no position to protect John, so he saw it as his only option.”

“But why didn’t Mary just make damned sure that Sherlock died in Magnussen’s office?” Lestrade wants to know. “Why didn’t she just shoot him in the head?” 

“Because John was there,” Mycroft tells him. The car turns onto one of the bridges, the grey Thames streaming by below. “Mary needed time to get away. If John had arrived and found Sherlock dead, he would have stayed there much longer. A mortally-wounded Sherlock meant getting him to a hospital and thereby getting John out of the building as quickly as possible.” 

Lestrade finally sips his coffee. They ride in silence for a few minutes while the caffeine finally connects to his brain cells and things start making a bit of sense. He still can’t imagine it – or rather, he couldn’t have if he hadn’t seen the file. He never would have guessed it of Mary. Not in the slightest. “What about Magnussen?” he asks suddenly. “How does that fit in with the rest of it? Is it related?” 

Mycroft smiles his approval at the question again. “It’s quite related,” he confirms. “Magnussen knew who Mary was. Or is, I should say. He was blackmailing her. That’s why she went to threaten him.”

“Was she threatening, or was she going to kill him?” Lestrade asks shrewdly. “You said the gun had a silencer on it.” 

This gets him another approving nod. “Very good,” Mycroft says. “Yes, I believe she intended to take whatever physical materials he had from him, and then eliminate him. However, she never got the chance.”

“But why didn’t Magnussen talk?” Lestrade doesn’t understand. “He had another six months before Sherlock shot him. Why didn’t he say anything, or publish something? File a police report? He was a witness to Sherlock’s near-death – why didn’t he tell anyone?” 

“Because Sherlock didn’t want him to.” Mycroft studies him, his fingers laced together over his briefcase. “Remember, Detective Inspector, what my brother’s first and only priority is, at least these days.” 

That much is clear in Lestrade’s mind. “John,” he supplies. 

“John,” Mycroft agrees. “For John’s sake, Sherlock had to eliminate the pressure on Mary. He did so by arranging with Magnussen to sell me out, which was what Magnussen had been wanting for some time. I knew, of course. We had planned that part together. We did not plan for Sherlock to kill Magnussen, however. We made an error. Both of us. We thought that Magnussen had physical materials that he was employing in his blackmail schemes, when all he had was knowledge.” 

“But he couldn’t have proved anything,” Lestrade protests. “Anything he could have printed would have been libel, just allegations.”

“Does it really matter, in the end?” The question is rhetorical, almost whimsical. “It’s genius, really,” Mycroft adds. “He never would have needed to prove it. And once Sherlock realised that, he saw that there was no way to stop Magnussen and therefore no way to save John from being caught up in Mary’s certain demise. Added to which,” he says, quieter, “Magnussen had assaulted Sherlock in the hospital. A mild assault, perhaps, but its implications were of a sexual nature and it was still quite disturbing. Sherlock failed to mention it but I discovered it on the hospital’s internal security system several weeks after the fact. Furthermore Martha Hudson alerted me to the fact that Magnussen had been at Baker Street and had, among other things, urinated on the premises and implied a preliminary threat of a sexual nature to my brother at that point. To make matters even worse, at the moment of realising our error, Sherlock was forced to watch as Magnussen struck John repeatedly in the face and eye – just in a small, petty sort of way, but I believe that all of this together contributed somewhat to my brother’s loss of temper at the moment that he decided that it would be better to eliminate Magnussen once and for all.” 

Mycroft falls silent and Lestrade realises that he’s forgotten all about his coffee again. “Jesus,” he says, feeling stunned. “No wonder! I mean – I’m not even going to ask what Sherlock has and hasn’t done before, but I never thought it seemed like him. Just shooting someone like that. I won’t ask where he got a gun from.” 

Mycroft smiles slightly and doesn’t respond to this. “You know that he spent two years abroad working – more or less – under the jurisdiction of the MI6,” he says. 

Lestrade hadn’t heard the bit about the MI6 and wonders what, precisely, ‘more or less’ means here. Probably best not to ask. “Okay,” he says, waiting. 

“He was to have been sent back into the field on a suicide mission,” Mycroft tells him. There is no trace of smug smile now. “It would have lasted six months at an absolute maximum. Quite likely rather less. Two or three months, I should have thought. When I told Sherlock, he accepted it without argument. He knew as of the moment that he decided to kill Magnussen that he would be punished for it. Better for him to have died on his feet doing something he liked, at least, rather than rotting away in a prison cell for the rest of his life.” 

Lestrade thinks of it and feels a pang, imagining Sherlock that way. He’d have gone mad in prison. Literally died of boredom. “Did John know?” he asks. “That he wasn’t coming back?” 

“There were indications that he could have gleaned that from, but no, no one told him explicitly,” Mycroft says. He leans his head back on the seat as though weary. “Whether or not he chose to see it is another question. You know John’s strengths by now, I would imagine. I’m rather more familiar with certain weaknesses and blind spots of his. Though he’s a good sort when he wants to be.”

This is as magnanimous as Lestrade could have imagined Mycroft to be. “You mean Mary,” he says. “About his blind spots, I mean.” 

“Among other things,” Mycroft agrees vaguely. 

Lestrade leans forward a little. “And Sherlock?” he asks, still meaning about John’s blind spots. He doesn’t elaborate; he suspects that he and Mycroft are on the same page here. 

Their eyes meet. Then Mycroft gives an elegant shrug. “It’s impossible to say whether or not John has realised the extent of Sherlock’s feelings. It’s a subject that Sherlock refuses to discuss.” 

It’s starting to coalesce now. “They’ve been arguing,” Lestrade tells him. “Throughout this case. John wants to know why Sherlock did something – which I’m thinking now must be about why he shot Magnussen – and Sherlock keeps saying things like actions being stronger than words and refusing to answer directly.” 

Mycroft sighs. “Yes,” he says. “Typical of both of them. Typical that John cannot deduce Sherlock’s reasons for himself, and typical of Sherlock to be unwilling to say it directly if John has not already reached the correct conclusion for himself. Well, that’s not something I’m about to interfere with – neither of them would thank me for it and I doubt very much that it would help. The reason I asked you to meet with me has more to do with Mary.”

Lestrade decides not to comment on the ‘asked’ bit. “What about her?” he asks shortly. 

“She’s still on the loose,” Mycroft tells him. “I don’t know how much of a threat she still is, but we are watching her.” 

The _we_ is heavily weighted and Lestrade decides to refrain from commenting on that, too. “There’s no pregnancy, you said. Is that why the marriage ended?” 

“The marriage ended when she shot my brother in the heart,” Mycroft says acerbically. “Although he went back to her on Christmas Day – another reason I believe Sherlock felt he didn’t need to linger here – John was seemingly unable to pretend. I don’t know the details of it, but the upshot is that he moved back into Baker Street and Mary is still living out in Dagenham. Meanwhile, we have a new bomber on the loose. You see my concern. I have yet to link any of it directly to Mary, but…”

“But it makes sense,” Lestrade finishes. “Which is why you thought I should know all of this.” 

“Precisely.” A smile touches Mycroft’s lips again. “Should Mary appear on the scene, I also felt you should know who she really is and what she is capable of. For your own safety, as well as everyone else’s. If she is involved and Sherlock and John are the ones to apprehend her – ”

“Got it,” Lestrade says, understanding immediately, and finally getting why Mycroft has bothered putting him in the picture. “I’ll have their backs,” he says firmly. “Do you want me to go over there or anything?” 

Mycroft shakes his head and the car draws to a halt. Lestrade looks out and sees that they’re in front of New Scotland Yard. “I have constant surveillance on the house,” he says. “But I would appreciate it if you could be particularly on the alert at the various crime scenes. Particularly when bombs are involved.” 

“Yes. Absolutely,” Lestrade promises. The door locks click and he takes that as his cue. He looks over at Mycroft and hands back the file on Mary. “Thanks for telling me all this. I appreciate it.”

Mycroft nods and accepts the file from him. “Good day, Detective Inspector,” he says, and Lestrade gets out. 

*** 

Lestrade thinks about this off and on for the next three days. The warrant came through and he sent Fisher’s laptop directly to Baker Street for Sherlock to look at, despite the breach in protocol. Meanwhile, hoping to help things a bit (both for the case’s sake as well as for theirs), he got John to come in and consult regarding the bomb device. John’s said repeatedly that he’s no expert on bombs, yet he always has something to contribute due to his time in Afghanistan. 

The case progresses slowly. David Fisher has no official existence apart from a singular line on RedHouse’s company directory. Sherlock hacks into his email (another reason Lestrade preferred he do this away from the prying and restrictive eyes of the Met in general) and finds nothing but business-related emails. There is apparently little else of interest on the laptop of note as well, save for the fact that all of this rather mundane information was as heavily protected as it was. Donovan finds a small photo from an old LinkedIn profile one day. She calls him over to show him the enlarged thumbnail. It’s grainy but recognisable. 

“We’re running facial recognition now,” she tells him. 

“Hang on,” Lestrade says, frowning at the photo. He enlarges it but it only makes it grainier, so he tries shrinking it a bit. “I know that face. Where have I seen it before?” He racks his brain. “Have you seen him before?”

Donovan leans in closer, but shakes her head. “No. Never. He actually looks a bit like John, though, don’t you think?” 

And then it clicks, because that’s precisely what Lestrade thought the first time he saw this face: at John and Mary’s wedding, seated at the very same table. “David,” he says, the pieces falling into place. “He was – ” He stops himself, not wanting to say anything about Mary just yet. “He was at John’s wedding,” he says instead. “They know each other. It has to be him!” He never knew David’s surname, just that he was an ex of Mary’s. He’d wondered what Mary had been thinking, inviting him to her wedding. So if Mary’s ex is the one who leased space for RedHouse, the company most directly connected to the bombs, there could be a direct connection to Mary. This is starting to get good. “Find him,” he tells Donovan. “Don’t say anything in front of either Sherlock or John, though. Not until it’s confirmed that it’s him. Get a team on it now!”

“Got it,” she says, and disappears. 

That afternoon, the Met gets a call. It gets transferred to Lestrade and he listens for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and then hanging up. He turns to Donovan. “Bomb!” he says shortly. “Get the car! Where are Sherlock and John?” 

“Conference room,” she says, jerking her chin in its direction, already on her feet and grabbing for her keys and coat. 

“We’ll meet you in the garage. Go!” Lestrade sprints to the conference room and opens the door without knocking. John is seemingly on the phone, scowling, and Sherlock is still looking at Fisher’s laptop. “Bomb on the north bank,” Lestrade informs them. 

Sherlock’s eyes go to John first, waiting, and John says something terse and ends the call. Then his eyes come back to Lestrade’s, his voice sharp. “When?” 

“It was just spotted now by some local kids. Let’s go!” Lestrade turns and makes for the lifts, aware that they’re both hard on his heels. 

In the car, Donovan gets off her phone and tells him that the bomb squad is already on its way. “Where is it exactly?” she asks, and he gives her directions. 

In the backseat, Sherlock is quietly asking John something about the phone call. 

“It was just Mary,” John says tersely. “For some reason she felt it her duty to call from the clinic and nag me about going back to work.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away, but then he says, “That’s ridiculous. You haven’t gone to work there in over six months. Why bother you about it _now?_ ”

“I don’t know,” John says shortly. “I think she really just wanted to know what I’m up to. Look, I didn’t ask her to call me, all right? I don’t talk to her at all any more.”

Donovan clears her throat and asks something about the route. “No, take the A13,” Lestrade tells her. They start talking about the bomb squad and RedHouse and Lestrade loses track of the conversation in the backseat. He takes a call from his boss and explains what he knows so far, and Donovan punches the GPS, ignoring whatever Sherlock just said to her. 

“The point,” John says to Sherlock, his voice tighter than anything, “is that I felt like none of it even mattered to you, if it wasn’t worth sticking around for, if you were going to leave again without even telling me. And on top of it, you won’t even do me the courtesy of explaining your reasons to me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. It makes me feel completely worthless to you.”

Lestrade thinks _oh, shit_. He feels Donovan glance at him, her eyebrows questioning, and deliberately doesn’t see it. This is _bad_ , and on top of it, the timing of it! Just when he needs them both on their game! Donovan turns the last corner, driving toward the empty lot, and Lestrade can’t help but listen for Sherlock’s answer. 

“If that’s what you think, then I don’t know what to say, either,” Sherlock says tensely, trying to keep his voice down but it’s obvious that everyone in the car can hear it. “If that’s what you think of me – that I would treat you that thoughtlessly, then – ”

Perhaps Donovan doesn’t want to listen to this, or else maybe the tension is getting to her, too, because she interrupts. “This is it,” she says, cutting over the argument. “I don’t see the bomb squad.”

It’s an empty lot with exactly one thing placed squarely in its centre: a bomb nearly one square metre in size, sitting by itself on the ground. 

“What?” Sherlock reacts before Lestrade can, his door opening. 

“Sherlock, don’t go out there before the area’s been cleared!” John is out of the car a heartbeat later.

“Oh, Christ.” Lestrade gets out himself and sees John grab for Sherlock’s arm, shoving him back and shouting something, gesticulating with his arms, then moving off toward the bomb. They’re about twenty metres from it’s sitting innocently alone in the middle of the gravel and weeds. It’s been raining and snowing by turns lately and the lot has become a swamp of mud. The very sight of the bomb looks ominous, and Lestrade hears Donovan shouting John’s name in warning, sees Sherlock charging after him. Where the hell is the bomb squad?!

Sherlock looms in close to John, his face inches away, as angry as Lestrade has ever seen it. “Why don’t you try _asking_ yourself why on earth I would do that? I didn’t do it _to_ you; I did it _for_ you!”

“ _For_ me?” John repeats incredulously. “Jesus, Sherlock! _Why?_ ”

“Why do you _think?_ ” Sherlock is shouting, the wind whipping his hair into a mess. “What reason could I have _possibly_ had?” 

“I keep telling you, I don’t _know!_ ” John sounds just as furious. “And anyway, there’s a bomb, and unless you know where the ‘off switch’ is this time, I’m going to have a go at diffusing it!” 

“No, John – ” Lestrade and Sherlock are both yelling, but Lestrade never gets the chance to finish his sentence. The explosion is so violent that it’s many moments or possibly minutes later before Lestrade comes to himself, flat on his back with gravel digging into his skull. His hearing comes back a few seconds later, the sound of debris raining down all around him and onto his face. He’s winded and gasping, but already getting to his feet and scrubbing at his eyes, blinking away the grit. Evidently the bomb squad was too late. He looks around to see what’s happened. Donovan is already picking herself up, a bit unsteady but looking otherwise uninjured. “Donovan! You all right?” 

“I’m okay,” she says, but her eyes are at the centre of the lot, where Sherlock and John are, or were the last time Lestrade saw them. 

Sherlock is just getting to his feet, staggering, but he has thought for one thing only: John is lying on his back four metres from where the bomb was. His eyes are closed. Oh, no, Lestrade thinks. Not John. (Please, no.) Sherlock runs toward him, his steps uneven and swaying but undeterred. “ _John!_ ” 

Lestrade thinks that he has never heard a sound more filled with anguish. He lurches over on unsteady legs, his ears still ringing from the blast. 

Sherlock is saying John’s name repeatedly, dropping to his knees beside John’s prone form, not caring a toss for his expensive suit, the Belstaff pooling in the mud. “John. John. John!” He is touching John’s face, bending to listen for breath. He looks up at Lestrade as he comes into view, his face completely stricken. “He isn’t breathing!”

“Sherlock – ” Lestrade starts, but Sherlock cuts him off. 

“Get an ambulance! _Now!_ ” He isn’t even trying to control himself, his eyes and face wild with abject panic. “Please!”

Lestrade looks past them to Donovan, who is already dialling. Bless her, he thinks confusedly, his head throbbing, grateful that someone has it together. Behind her, the bomb squad is just pulling up, people spilling out. Donovan hangs up and comes over to talk to Sherlock. 

“The ambulance is on its way,” she begins to tell Sherlock. “Is there – ”

“Stay back!” Sherlock thrusts out a hand, his back to her, then gathers John’s still body into his arms, gentler than Lestrade has ever seen him. “John,” he repeats, touching his face. “Please, _God_ , don’t be – don’t – ” He’s actually crying, something which Lestrade has never witnessed before, moaning and saying John’s name over and over again, cradling his upper body in his arms, John’s dangling limply. 

Lestrade thinks blankly of Mycroft and doesn’t know what he’s supposed to tell him. The bomb squad have all stopped, falling silent. They all know John and like him, and the heartbreaking spectacle of Sherlock weeping on his knees in the mud has left a semi-circle of sober onlookers waiting a respectful distance away. Donovan comes over and stands beside him. She’s silent, one arm crossing her torso to hold the other, her eyes watching Sherlock and John like the rest of them. 

“Sherlock…” It’s John’s voice, faint, but definitely alive, and Lestrade feels a burst of intense relief. _Thank God_. It occurs to him that the concept of Sherlock without John is frankly unbearable. He can’t even imagine it. He’s seen John without Sherlock, which was awful, but somehow the thought of Sherlock without John – John has resources, coping mechanisms. Whereas Sherlock – and John is _everything_ to him. 

“John!” Sherlock’s reaction is one of heart-stopping shock and joy. “You’re – God, you’re alive!”

If John is surprised to find himself in Sherlock’s arms, Lestrade can’t tell from where he’s standing. “I’m sorry,” John says weakly, reaching up to touch Sherlock’s face. “I’m so sorry – I shouldn’t have – ”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Sherlock tells him, his voice low and full of emotion, still holding him. “I should have just told you. I did it because I wanted you to be happy. I didn’t know any other way. I was trying to keep you safe and – to let you have what I thought you wanted. I’m sorry, I didn’t – I never wanted to leave you behind. I never wanted to leave you at all. But with Mary – I thought – ”

“You thought I loved her,” John says. “I – maybe I was trying to tell myself I did, too, but I don’t. I love you. And – you love me. You must. That’s why you did all of that. I know that now. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. But you do, don’t you?” His voice is still thready but he sounds certain enough. (Good, Lestrade thinks. It’s about time he cottoned on to what everyone else has already known for ages.) 

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t contradict him. He strokes the hair back from John’s forehead, and heedless of the spectators, bends to kiss him, holding him tightly in his arms. John’s hand is still on Sherlock’s face and the other arm wraps itself around Sherlock’s back, and Lestrade honestly thinks that, of every Hollywood film he’s ever seen, every grateful, relieved husband or wife who’s got a spouse back from an abduction or what have you, this is hands down the most passionate kiss he’s ever witnessed. He finds his throat a little tight and hopes that Donovan won’t notice – but then he sees that her eyes are glassy with tears. 

He looks his surprise at her and she shakes her head. “Sorry, boss. It’s just – I never thought they’d ever get there, and just now, thinking John might actually be – ” She stops short of saying it. “It’s just – it’s beautiful.” 

Lestrade feels something loosen in his chest somehow. He looks back at them, still embracing, as though they’re the only two people in the world. “Yeah,” he says, a bit gruff. “It is.” 

The ambulance arrives then, stopping just short of the muddy lot and the paramedics get out and go over. Sherlock relinquishes his grip on John at last and follows them closely as they lift John into the ambulance to look him over. 

Lestrade finally turns his attention to the leader of the bomb squad, a good sort named Jefferson. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” he asks, though without as much edge as he might have. “You missed the blast!”

“Sorry, sir,” Jefferson says, and sounds like he means it. “It wasn’t our fault, though, sir. It seems our GPS was reprogrammed and we went to the wrong place. Blaine had a look and we’ve got fingerprints. They matched someone called David Fowler, works for a software programming place called Hi-Tech. He’s been brought in for questioning. But we’re very sorry, sir.” 

Lestrade frowns. “Have you got a photo?”

“Yes, sir,” Blaine confirms. “We sent it to Sergeant Donovan. It was taken from the garage security camera. It’s only three-quarters, but it should be enough for facial recognition.” 

Donovan has her phone out and says, “You’re not going to believe this, boss.” 

“Lemme see.” Lestrade takes the phone from her. The video is paused and he enlarges it with his fingers. “What! This is him, this is the David who was at John’s wedding! So Fisher and Fowler are the same person!” He gives the phone back. “Go and question him now,” he tells her. “Lay on the pressure.”

“On it, boss!” Donovan is away in an instant, heading for the car. 

The bomb squad are looking at the fragments of the device, scattered around the lot. Lestrade watches them for a moment, then goes to the ambulance. John is sitting on the edge, his blood pressure being taken, and Sherlock has got an arm around him, holding a cold compress to the back of his head. Lestrade stops in front of them and smiles. “You all right?” he asks John. 

John smiles back. “I’m fine,” he says. “Maybe a touch of concussion, but I’m fine.” 

“Good. Really good. You gave us all a scare, there.” Lestrade’s eyes meet Sherlock’s and Sherlock gives him a slight smile. “Good to see you two’ve got yourselves properly sorted at last, too.”

Sherlock only smiles, but his fingers tighten around John’s. “Sorry for all the arguing,” John says sheepishly. “We never meant to air it all in front of you guys.” 

He’s doing it now, too, Lestrade notices. The ‘we’ thing. Somehow this is immensely satisfying. “Not an issue,” he says. “Glad you’ve finally got there in the end.”

John winces a little. “Took me long enough, didn’t it?” 

“Stop it,” Sherlock says to him, scolding, and John looks at him they smile at each other and it’s so intimate that Lestrade almost feels he should look away. 

“Well, don’t tell her I told you, but the two of you made Donovan cry just now,” he offers, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Nearly got me, too, if you want to know. And the entire bomb squad.” 

John grins. “Seriously?” 

“Really don’t mention it to Donovan,” Lestrade warns. “But yes. Really. I should also mention about now that I know all about you getting shot and about Mary and all of that. Now: the reason the bomb squad was delayed was because our David Fisher apparently broke into their car and reprogrammed the GPS this morning. We’ve got him in custody now. Turns out David Fisher is Mary’s ex-boyfriend, David Fowler.” 

John frowns. “What? Seriously?” 

“He does have the skills to reprogram a GPS,” Sherlock says, his frown mirroring John’s. “He used to work for a software programming company.”

“How did you know that?” John wants to know, looking at him. 

“Pre-wedding interview,” Sherlock says briefly, and John grins. 

“It’s called Hi-Tech,” Lestrade supplies. 

“That’s it,” Sherlock says. “Though he was either fired or quit about two months after the wedding.”

John looks at Sherlock. “A month after you were shot,” he says. “When I had moved back into Baker Street to look after you.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment before replying. “Do you think Mary hired him then? Just as a precaution in the event that you decided not to go back?” 

“Could well be,” John says sourly. “So she has him set up this shell corporation that has weird dealings with countries with known terrorist associations, then just keeps him around – what, running the company and generally being on hand to do her dirty work?” 

“Well, Mary would hardly do the petty break-ins and GPS reprogrammings and such,” Sherlock says mildly. “And we know she would have money from her work, as you said.” He looks at Lestrade. “My brother spoke to you,” he states. It’s not a question. 

“Yeah. He came by the crime scene the other day and took me for a drive,” Lestrade says, his mouth twisting. “It wasn’t really a choice. He said he thought it was about time I had some answers, and I must say, I’m glad he told me all that. He wanted me to keep an eye out for Mary, or her handiwork, maybe, and watch out for you two.”

They exchange another look. “I’m glad you know now,” John tells him. “Really. It’s a relief to have it out. I just couldn’t say anything before.” 

Lestrade waves this off. “Yeah, I understand. I didn’t realise what a – well, the whole extent of it, with Mary and that. So, lemme see if I’ve got a basic theory on this,” he says. “Tell me if you think I’m way off: you leave Mary not long after having taken her back, Mary retaliates, gets her ex-boyfriend to use the shell corporation to order in bomb supplies, then sets about bombing things around the city to attract Sherlock’s attention, meaning that both of you would be at crime scenes and that. Let’s say that Dublin was a test. And then bombs start being found around London but twice our bomb squad gets them diffused before you two arrive. So she gets David to delay the bomb squad, hoping to get the two of you today. What do you think? Too far-fetched? Too extreme?” 

They exchange another look, then Sherlock says carefully, “Not in my opinion, but – ” He looks at John again. “What do you think?” 

“No, I think Greg’s got it exactly right,” John says. “I think this _is_ Mary. Her last words to me on the phone today were that I would be sorry that I was still avoiding her by not going to work today, something along those lines. A thinly-disguised threat, in other words.” 

Lestrade’s phone pings. It’s a text from Donovan that reads: _Fowler just confessed. He was hired by Mary Watson, of all people! Do you want us to bring her in?_ He turns the phone to face them. “Looks like we were all right,” he says grimly. “If you two want to keep away from this one, be my guest.”

“Oh, no,” John says, with something like grim enthusiasm. “We wouldn’t miss this for the _world_.”

Sherlock agrees. “We’re absolutely coming along for the arrest,” he says, with so much relish that it’s practically indecent. “She almost _killed_ John today.”

John smiles at him, so affectionately that Lestrade thinks his face might actually be radiating. “I was only knocked out,” he scoffs, though the tone is unconvincing. “And to be frank, I’m pretty glad I was. I don’t know how much longer we’d have gone on fighting if I hadn’t woken up with your arms around me like that.”

“That – made it clear, then?” Sherlock asks, as though confirming, and Lestrade glances up at one of the paramedics and they exchange a look that says they both know their respective presences have stopped registering. He looks away all the same, clearing his throat discreetly. 

Neither of them hear it. “Yeah,” John says, his own voice lower. “I just opened my eyes and there you were and it was all on your face and suddenly I just – knew.”

“I didn’t want to say it more plainly if you didn’t – ”

“But I did,” John tells him, then corrects himself. “I do.”

Lestrade takes a few steps away so that he can ignore the fact that they’re probably kissing again, a small thump of the cold compress that Sherlock was holding getting dropped. He decides not to point out that they’re both doing this ‘we’ thing now, completely unconsciously. He supposes that this is how it’s going to be from here on in. 

He finds himself smiling at patch of weeds, keeping it to himself. It’s about bloody time. 

*


End file.
